


His State is Kingly

by allback2mine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blindness, Cursed Sam, Drunkenness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Vaguely Wincesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allback2mine/pseuds/allback2mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Aaaaaages ago I was persuaded to try my hand at writing fic. The result is that I wrote this Blindfold fill. This is years old now, but I thought I'd post it here anyway. Not beta'd or anything, unfortunately.</p><p>Written for the blindfold-spn prompt 'Sam gets blinded in a hunt - could be permanent or temporary. Dean takes care of him.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	His State is Kingly

Dean's learned a lot of useful new things over the last few days and one of them is that the way Sam moves when he's temporarily blinded is almost exactly the same as the way he moves when he's drunk. That is, kind of like an enormous baby deer, all long wobbly limbs and tentative steps as if he's not sure he's getting this whole new 'walking' thing quite right.

It's late evening when Dean leads Sam into their bedroom at Bobby's place and helps him to sit down on the bed. He moves around to his own side, sets the half-empty whisky bottle next to the lamp on the nightstand and pulls off his boots and socks. Normally he would've just thrown himself straight into the middle of the bed, perhaps adding a few extra bounces just to be obnoxious, but he's not really in the mood tonight. He feels the mattress jostle as Sam deals with his own boots. The slow deliberation of Sam's movements makes something sink downwards in Dean's chest. It may or may not be his heart.

The bed they're sitting on must be older than Bobby and probably came with the scrapyard. Probably should be _in_ the scrapyard. The battered metal frame is seamed with rust at its joints and the springs shriek like a wendigo on fire anytime either of them turns over, or moves, or breathes. But staying at Bobby's means sharing this bed with Sam and that's the way it's been ever since Dean can remember. Even the knitted patchwork blanket they're sitting on is the same. Dean likes to think that maybe Bobby's wife made it, but he doesn't want to ask.

When Sam and Dean were little, each different colored blanket square was a building in an imaginary town of which Dean was Sheriff and Sam, Deputy. Dean would patrol his tin car along the road-seams, always on the lookout for bad guys and law-breakers. Sam preferred marshalling their plastic soldiers, usually onto a single square on the other side of the mountain of his bent knee. He would keep them poised there, vigilant and ready to launch a surprise attack once Dean had the bad guys cornered. 'Cause sooner or later Dean always got the bad guys cornered. Dean had thought for a while that he should do his big brotherly duty and point out to Sam that sheriffs don't usually have soldiers, they just have other cops. Or sometimes cowboys. But soldiers were what they had, and they were the Sheriff and his Deputy so their word was law.

The other thing Dean remembers about sleeping here when he was little is that he and Sam hadn't tended to tumble together into the middle of the bed the way they do now. These days Dean always seems to wake up with his face smushed into Sam's neck, mouth tasting of salt. But they're bigger now, he reasons. They take up more space and are heavier too. And the bed is older, you only have to listen to the noises those goddamn springs make. Combination of space and time, Dean reckons. Not like there's anything they can do about it.

He turns and sits crosslegged, facing Sam across the familiar expanse of blanket. The wool makes his bare ankles itch. Sam mirrors his position and looks like he's meeting his gaze, but Dean knows better. Sam will be completely sightless for as long as it takes for the spell to wear off.

Dean had merrily waved Sam off into the house they'd been watching and then made himself comfy in the driver's seat of the Impala. It'd only take one of them to close this down now that they'd figured out that the monster was just a human. Just a woman dabbling in witchcraft who had no idea that the power suddenly at her fingertips had arrived because one thing, one goddamn thing in her pile of Sedona, Arizona giftshop shit turned out to be real. And Dean had let Sam go in alone because he was tired and because witches, even the amateur ones: ew.

Thing was, there was a tiny error in their calculations: she did know it was real. She knew damn well that amulet worked and she wasn't about to let some self-righteous son of a bitch bust into her house in the middle of the night and take it. She'd flicked on the light in her living room to find a giant leaning over her altar and the surge of anger and fear that rolled out of her had activated the relic.

Bobby suggested later that the intention of the spell it cast had probably been just to disable the threat, and would last as long as it took for the witch to get good and gone. Few days, most likely a week. Warded relics tended to be over-cautious little bastards. Dean could understand that; magical objects often carried spells or curses for the purpose of self-preservation. They'd met with that before. But the method of protection it had chosen was to instantly and brutally blind his brother, and that was something with which Dean had a fairly big problem.

Outside in the car, he had been jerked awake by the flash of light that burst from the house. He ripped the car door open, sprinted across the lawn and smashed the front door with one kick, skidding into the living room just in time to see the shocked-looking witch grab the amulet and flee through the back door. The hunter's voice at the back of his head, the one that always sounded vaguely like his dad, told him to go after her, for duty or revenge, didn't matter. But then,

"Dean?"

Every single other part of him pulled towards where Sam had fallen to his knees, big hands spread out on the wood floor for balance as he desperately called Dean's name. Dean knelt beside him and wrapped an arm around his hunched back. Sam looked up then and Dean felt his own eyes widen as he looked into Sam's. They were entirely the hazel color of his irises. Every bit. No pupils, no whites just two pools of dark blue, grey, green. The little flecks of bronze that were normally barely noticeable seemed to dance now, buffeted amongst the swirling colors. Dean's mouth fell open.

Sam snapped him out of his daze, whispering "Dean? Dean, I can't... I don't think I can see." Dean fitted the palm of his other hand to the back of Sam's skull and coaxed his little brother's face into the crook of his neck, partly to comfort him and partly so that he didn't have to look into his strange, hypnotic eyes anymore. He told Sam it was okay, it's okay. I'm here, I'm here, I'm here.

***

They've had a shot or two (or three) each when Sam shuffles a little on the thin mattress and seems to decide he's comfortable at last. He rolls his neck, clears his throat and cracks his knuckles. Says, with what Dean considers an inappropriate degree of finality, "Okay". Dean grins at him.

"You all right there Sasquatch? You got yourself all psyched up now? I could go get Bobby in, give you a pep talk and a backrub if you think it'd help..." Sam calmly gives Dean the single-fingered salute, his hand probably a little closer to Dean's face than it should have been. A wicked thought flashes through Dean's brain and, gaze still locked on the glazed eyes in front of him, he leans forward and bites the very tip of Sam's finger.

"Dean!" Sam yanks his hand back and cradles it against his chest, indignant. His bottom lip softens into something that looks suspiciously like a pout. Dean is unrepentant.

"Well c'mon then man, hurry it up! I'm sitting here getting older, waiting for you to cop a feel." He pauses, expecting some kind of exasperated noise in return but it doesn't come. Sam just lets his head drop, lets his hair fall in his eyes and his fingers brush the blanket. He looks thwarted. Can't have that.

"Still don't know why you even want to," Dean says. "I mean, you've gotta know my face backwards by now dude; you see it every goddamn day. Unless, you know, this is all just an excuse to get your paws on the patented Dean Winchester moneymaker," He clicks his tongue to let Sam know he's winking. "I can't say I blame you. You're only human after all." He smirks pointlessly at Sam, who rolls his eyes like he knows the exact expression anyway.

"I don't know you like this though," Sam says quietly, gesturing at his own eyes. "I mean, I still know it's you. Of course I do, I can hear the way you move and I know your smell and god _knows_ I know what your voice sounds like..." Dean smacks him on the arm and Sam quirks a small smile. "I just need to find something to make up for not seeing you now, that's all. Just for while I'm like this. It's kind of lonely. I mean, I wouldn't have expected...I..." His lips roll inwards and press together in a tight line. He wrinkles his nose. "That sounds so dumb when I say it out loud," he sighs.

"It's okay Sammy, you don't have to explain. Just do it. I don't mind. C'mon." Dean leans in further and tries to relax. Sam lifts his head again, still glassy-eyed but now with a little knot of concentration forming between his eyebrows. He fans his fingers out on the blanket, thumbs touching, and slides his hands forward until they meet Dean's. Dean glances down at the contact and watches Sam's long bumpy-knuckled fingers slide over the backs of his own hands, stroking his veins, his bones.

He likes Sam's hands, likes the way they've roughened, grown big and capable. They can load a shotgun, sharpen a knife, wrap a bandage. Protect Sam when Dean's not there to do it. They feel kind of like an extension of himself, these hands; all that knowledge he pushed into them when Sam was little coming out now to help keep him safe. Dean gets kind of sentimental sometimes. He cordially invites you to bite him.

Sam's reached his wrists now and circles them easily with each middle finger and thumb. Dean feels Sam's gun calluses scrape the delicate skin on the inside of the joint and it makes him swallow hard. It's not a place he often gets touched. Sam fits the rest of his fingers around Dean's wrists, warm and tight and slides his hands slowly upwards, wrapped like cuffs around Dean's forearms. The pressure strokes the fine hairs there the wrong way and raises goosebumps in its wake, the uncovered skin left behind suddenly feeling ridiculously bare. He swallows again and hopes Sam won't notice the speed of his pulse. It's just because he doesn't usually get touched like this, that's all.

It's a relief when Sam's hands reach the edge of his rolled-up shirt sleeves and stutter slightly over the obstacle. He fumbles for Dean's biceps and clings there for a second, apparently to recover his bearings. There's still a sparky, tingling sensation in Dean's wrists and on the soft skin inside his elbows that Sam didn't even touch. His reaction is embarrassing him so he looks for a diversion. He notices Sam's big hand curved around his upper arm, still warm through two layers of fabric. He flexes the muscles there and grins,

"Why thank you for noticing, Sam. Yes I _have_ been working out."

Sam squeezes Dean's arm thoughtfully and frowns,

"I was just wondering where my big brother had gone and how I'd gotten hold of this tiny little girl instead."

"Little bitch! Anyway, you're the one doing the feeling up." Sam looks embarrassed but still doesn't let go of Dean's arm. "I thought it was my face you were interested in. What's with all the hand holding?" Sam goes so obviously pink that it makes Dean glad no one can see how flushed his own cheeks must still be.

"That's me finding your face, jerk. I'm not gonna just grab at it when I can't see shit. Probably would've poked you in the eye or something and had you yelling at me all night."

"Okay, Francis, okay. I'm just saying I could've bought my face to your hands, you didn't have to bring your hands to my face. That's all."

"Yeah, well. You said I could do this, so we're doing it my way," Sam grins victoriously and it lights Dean up inside. "Now shut up and keep still." He keeps up appearances with a stream of bad-tempered mutterings about punk-ass little brothers but, yeah. Lit up.

Sam's hands are on the globes of his shoulders now. They smooth over them for a second, then slide a little way towards his neck before getting snarled up in the collar of his overshirt. Sam grabs the points and tugs softly.

"Off."

"Bossy"

"Entitled. Blind"

"Okay, I can't beat that," Dean sighs as he shrugs the shirt out from under Sam's palms and pulls it off. His undershirt is just an old band tee: faded, stretched and gaping at the neck. Washed and washed until it feels like almost nothing at all. The heat coming from Sam's hands is searing through it like it isn't even there and he can feel every joint, every callus. He wishes he'd put on something thicker this morning, but he'd just reached straight for this one. It would have been nice to have had that intensity muted. Or rather, it would have been easier.

Sam pushes his hands flat and slides them a little way down Dean's chest until his fingertips are sitting in neat little rows on Dean's exposed collarbones, each one a spark pressed into his flesh. He's noticed that Sam's touch seems to affect him most where his bones are closest to the surface. He wonders if that's a brother thing: same marrow, same blood. It's a weird feeling, like a touch through the skin. Sam is smirking to himself.

"Hey Sammy, what's so funny?"

"You. You've got your comfort blanket on. You're wearing your Zeppelin shirt."

Dean startles. "Your powers coming back, Psychic-Boy? How the hell did you know that? "

Sam scritches his right thumbnail across the surface of the shirt and Dean jumps when he feels it catch on unexpectedly exposed skin.

"Because of this hole right here," he says as he wiggles his thumb through it to stroke tiny arcs on Dean's chest. "You were fixing the car...welding something. Big ol' burst of sparks came out. All the other ones fell on your arm, I remember the burns."

"Jesus, Sammy, that was years ago. Why would you remember a dumb thing like that?"

The strokes get slower, harder. Sam's voice hushes and Dean nearly misses what he says.

"I always remember when you get hurt."

Dean might possibly know the feeling.

***

Sam has been shuffling closer to Dean all evening and is now damn close to sitting in his lap. He's occupied with measuring the length of Dean's nose against his own index finger. Dean is a very patient brother. He thinks maybe bringing the whisky to bed was a bad idea, though.

"My finger is considerably longer. Huh."

Dean smiles because Sam is such a gigantic nerd.

"Woah! What did you do then?"

"Just smiling atcha Sammy." All those hissing s's tickle his tongue in the funnest of ways. Dean is a drunken man and sibilants are awesome and Sam is a nice soft weight right there in front of him.

"Well you totally just moved my finger with the power of your nose. You should know that. Wait a second," he says as he leans forward even further, places his other index finger on Dean's nose as well and then sweeps both digits gently across his cheekbones to the outer corners of his eyes. "Now do it again."

Dean smiles again. He didn't even really need to be told.

"A-ha!" Sam yelps. "I knew it. Crinkles!"

Dean laughs out loud at that, trying not to move his head too much although it doesn't seem to matter because Sam's fingers just follow the shifts anyway. Sam looks pleased.

"I think you mean _wrinkles_ , Sammy. That's what they're usually called. So what we've established with this experiment is that I've got wrinkles and a surprisingly short nose. That right?"

"Naw, they're crinkles Dean. I like 'em. And the data on your nose may be unreliable, because it's kind of retrousse and that makes it hard to measure accurately. A finger's prob'ly not the best tool."

"Retrou...? What is it with you and my nose, dude? Like in the mental hospital. You were high and you booped me, repeatedly."

"I hate to tell you this man, but you're my brother and I can't lie to you, so: I would be booping you right the fuck now if I didn't think I'd slip and, y'know, wind up doing something stupid like sticking my fingers in your mouth."

Oh. Okay.

Suddenly Dean can almost taste them. Sweat and whisky and soap, in that order. He can feel the blunt pressure on his tongue, the nearly-painful smear of his lips. He wonders what Sammy would think of his teeth if he rubbed his fingertips against them and then he wonders why he would care. It's too much.

"Dean?"

Dean has to swallow a lot of spit before he can answer. "Yeah Sammy?"

"Lemme touch your eyelashes. It's for science."

***

Sam curls his fingers inwards to nestle in his palms and brushes his dry knuckles along Dean's cheekbones towards his hairline. They stopped talking a while ago and since then Sam seems to have fallen into a reverie of touching. The pads of his thumbs trail after his knuckles and stop when they slip, apparently perfectly, into the tender dips of Dean's temples. They press down a little and rub in soft circles. Dean wonders what it says about him that he's prepared to let Sam touch him where he's so vulnerable. Maybe it says good things, who knows?

Sam's long fingers push through his hair, teasing the roots and sending trickles of sensation down his back. They stroke down towards the nape of his neck and gather there. He leaves his thumbs resting at Dean's temples so that Dean's whole head is spanned by Sam's hands, big warm palms brushing the cold tips of his ears. Dean is on the verge of falling asleep but he sees Sam smile at him and he sees the way it even reaches his eyes, weird as they are right now. It doesn't look like an expression Dean's ever seen before, but that can't be right.

Sam looks like he's about to doze off himself but he keeps moving his hands carefully over Dean's skin. Still cupping Dean's head in his left hand, he frees his right and strokes his fingers gently down the side of Dean's face, making lazy undulations over his temple, his cheekbone, his jaw. His nails brush the baby-soft waves at Dean's hairline and he whispers, almost to himself.

" 'Perfectly handsome and an angel in his everything-blond way.' "

"What, Sammy? M'not blond," Dean sleepily objects.

"Used to be."

"Not now."

"Not enough sun, s'why. Changes us, the sun. You get lighter I get darker." His peculiar eyes blink very slowly. "Let's go on vacation Dean."

"Okay Sammy, sure. We'll work something out for when you're better, huh?"

"Yeah. And for when we're not so drunk."

Dean laughs under his breath. "Yeah, that too. Want me to help you get in bed?"

"Please Dean."

Dean hauls his exhausted, drunk self into motion. He helps Sam to get undressed, swiping away fumbling fingers to unfasten his jeans and then getting a good grip on the hems. Before he starts to tug he says the same thing they've always said to each other when they do this, for years and years and years, whenever one of them helps the other to get comfortable because he's too ill or hurt or just too fucking drunk to do it himself:

"Hold onto your underwear kid, this is a family show."

Sam giggles, actually giggles he's that far gone, and grabs the elastic of his boxers as Dean pulls his jeans off with a whoosh. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Dean ditches his own jeans while behind him Sam kicks the blankets down out of the way. Once he's finished Sam sits very still right in the middle of the rumpled white sheets, hands spread flat on the mattress on either side of his hips to orientate himself. He's blinking sleepily, his big dark animal eyes a little bit more reluctant to open again each time they close.

Dean pauses for a second and just looks at Sam. He's wearing a battered old undershirt, his bare legs stuck out in front of him and still looking inexplicably coltish despite his being nearly thirty, jesus christ. In a few moments Dean will crawl up the mattress, pulling the covers with him as he goes. He will reach over and click out the lamp. Sam's blindness will make him impatient and he won't wait for sleep to tangle them together. He will put his hands on Dean's limbs and push and pull until he's fitted Dean's tired body perfectly against his own and Dean will let him. He'll bring his hands to rest somewhere underneath Dean's clothes and Dean will let him. They will not speak.

The last thing Dean will be aware of before he falls asleep is that his own bare hipbone perfectly fills the cup of Sam's palm and he will wonder, now he knows that there was once a God, if they became what they are to each other the moment He made that happen.

　

  



End file.
